In Love But Not At Peace
by Mucada
Summary: UPDATE. Chapter 4 of this series of short stories. In front of her is Remus Lupin. He always hated himself for some things.
1. Pretending

Title: In Love But Not At Peace  
Author: Mucada  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Everything Jo's. Title refers to a Dar Williams' song.  
Summary: Sometimes it's all about pretending. A Tonks' narration.  
A/N: Not to promise anything, but I hope that this becomes a short series of vignettes. What do you think?

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His flat in London is in the Earl's Court area and not in a good area either. It's a quick walk from the tube station, and late into the night the street is lit, with dog walkers and restaurant goers passing by occasionally. It isn't safe, he tells her too many times for her to listen, because of the location, because of the darkness, because of the city. She knows greater dangers, and that doesn't include the city of London. But he tells her anyway, just because he can, and she half listens once and a while, regardless of what she pretends.

There's one of those shops where muggles can get their clothing cleaned, a place that exchanges currency, and a small boutique on his street. She's never been to any of them, only the Chinese restaurant nearby and the Blackbird occasionally, when there's nothing to eat in his house. He gives her this feeling about his neighborhood, like he leads the double life, and he knows more about the area than he lets her realize. It's some big secret she isn't let in on.

She refers to it as the Walk up of Doom; four flights of stairs with little light and hard steps. She knows because her knees have made unavoidable contact with the unmerciful stairs more times than should be necessary. But she continues the journey, sometimes at odd hours, just because, well, he is an unavoidable person himself, without a doubt.

Once she reaches the flat, with its plain wooden door and gold lettering, she knocks about five times, sharply and a little too frantically. She waits in the ordinary hallway, impersonal and all too public. It reminds her subconsciously why she sometimes hates living in a city with so many people in such close conditions. Something that is occupied by so many people every day shouldn't be so boring and simple. She lived her entire life in London, except when she was at Hogwarts, and she's known nothing else but what her school friends have told her about the country. Is her continuous stay worth it? She tells herself, as she stands in the vacant corridor, that it is.

When he opens the door, she is reminded why she has stayed so long in the city. She goes from one extreme to the other: the boring hallway to his small but intensely fascinating flat. There are books and papers everywhere. Some of them are journals, mostly traveling journals. Others are books used for research, mostly for the Order. Some of them are muggle. The chairs –mismatched- are salvaged pieces thrown away by strangers, and the couch is older than her. She's not quite sure what color the walls are, because they're heavily covered with selected pieces of art, paintings she never bothered to ask where from, because the story didn't seem to matter.

And yet, the room isn't messy. In his mind, she is certain it is quite organized. The space is so small, and there isn't enough room to fit multiple book cases so the books are placed around the room, logical in a way only he knows. Everything else -the records, the miscellaneous yet fairly interesting objects, articles of clothing- is scattered about as if picked up and thrown down repeatedly and subconsciously. She is very much aware of how haphazard yet, in more than one way, brilliant his mind is, even if it is unappreciated by some.

When she thinks of him, she finds him sitting amongst the ordered chaos, content as if he knew nothing about anything. That's the way she wants to be, even though he isn't at all like that. He might be smoking, or drinking coffee that is usually mixed with something of his fancy. He's always like that these days, like the world isn't going on around him, and that there isn't betrayal, death, war, or sorrow. She wonders what he thinks about so he doesn't have to think about other things.

She thinks about him, instead of everything else. She did for two years.

But he might think about her. That is, when he isn't too busy pretending to not notice how often she visits him, how many times they laugh, all of their mutual looks and friendly touches, like the world around them is turning in the other direction to pretend not to notice.

They have little but themselves. He calls himself poor. She calls him humble (in which he laughs at). She stays over and wears one of his shirts to work the next morning, and they share shampoo. He pretends to not notice the way she keeps his shirt and wears it more than she wears her own clothing.

She pretends that it's normal too, but sometimes she gives him that look, late at night when the only noise outside the open window is the lonely walker clicking their boots against the pavement. That looks says all, she tells her self, but he pretends to not notice.

But he lets her stay the night, and sleep in his bed. And she lives for the words that remain unsaid, so she returns again. And again.

And if he doesn't open the door because he's buying ice cream at the corner store, she lets herself in. When he returns, they share the ice cream, eating out of the container with one spoon while reading the paper together. He reads a lot faster than her, so he waits.

Just like she waits, for those words unspoken to form sounds, to finally be said.

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tell me what you think:)


	2. Lying

Title: In Love But Not At Peace  
Author: Mucada  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Jo's. Title belongs to Dar Williams. Brick Lane? Belongs to itself.  
Summary: Somtimes, it's all about lying to yourself. Remus narration.

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Eastbound, on the District, to Brick Lane; they travel like strangers that don't mind sitting with their shoulders touching. The tube isn't crowded but she sits next to him, her thigh against his like they had to sit that way because of the lack of space. They are the only passengers in the cart, and with all that space she could at least move so he isn't pressed up against the glass spacer.

He isn't stupid, either, but that's beside the point.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as she changes her hair from green to pink, compact mirror held in front of her. He wonders if she notices how she needlessly raises her eyebrows as she tugs on a lock of short, vibrant hair.

They also forgot how to talk, so it seems. Silence is thick like fog in the tube, so he busies himself by reading the muggle advertisements high on the wall as the train moves, surrounded by darkness, underground. He asks himself, the question jumping back into his brain after he tries to push it out again, why they are on the vacant tube going east. There's a curry restaurant on Old Brompton that he likes, because it's quite and there's a good bar nearby. She insists on traveling there. She insists he joins her. He agrees.

Why? He's not sure.

Really, he can't stop lying to himself.

Their stop is Aldgate East, and they enter the pedestrian underground. His steps are quite, soft leather shoes making no noise; her heels make sharp, uneven clicks. The concrete walls bounce the sound against his ears, and it is almost unbearable. They find themselves lost at a dead end leading to a closed gift shop, but he doesn't blame her even though she suggested that route. They laugh about it, turning around and walking up the stairs again. As he places a hand on the small of her back, she staggers, light, nervous laughter matching his own.

"What did you say the name of the restaurant was?" he asks, cringing as his voice echoes. It's like a tunnel of sound, and it makes him feel uncomfortable. But the silence is sometimes worse.

"I didn't," she replies simply, glancing quickly over at him. "What? I'll know it when I see it. Even been on Brick Lane?" He shakes his head. "Well," she says, smiling softly as she draws out the word, "They have some good shops, you'd never know. And good curry if you know where to go."

When they are above ground, he notices that the weather has changed drastically since they left it for the tube. The rain is far off, and the air doesn't smell of it, but heavy gusts of wind come from either side of them.

"Hope it doesn't rain," she comments, tugging on her short jacket as they walk.

"Don't worry," he says, knowing very well that it might rain, but more west and near the water. She says nothing, only offering that same smile she gave him in the pedestrian underground. The smile says nothing except what he can not understand quite yet.

It's a short walk to their destination, and he lets her lead him, by the hand, with the wind rushing about them. No more sound tunnel, now it's a wind tunnel. He wants to think that there is no sound, though, just the wind and her steps, but there are a few people walking the street, mostly businessmen. They reach Brick Lane's entrance –and he says entrance because he knows right away that it's a world of its own- and the start walking north on the crooked road. The lane is very narrow, a one way road for small cars. Most of the signs for side streets are written in Arabic, but he lets her worry about where they are going. He trusts her, for one moment. He knows, very well; no one offers her much trust, so he doesn't say a word. Somehow, when he failed to notice, she laced her fingers through his. Again, not a word is said, but now the silence isn't harsh because he can feel her thinking along side of him.

They stop at a corner, letting a sedan pull out of the alleyway, and once it passes she hesitates. He trails his eyes down her small body, and then looks ahead up the street. It seems as if everything she is wearing was bought on Brick Lane. She catches his eye again, and offers that same sexy smile. He tells himself everything is imagined, or a lie he creates to make himself belief what really doesn't exist. It's all fabricated, all used to keep him thinking of things he shouldn't.

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Wow! thank you to all who reviewed chapter 1. Makes me feel warm inside. I love to hear from readers.


	3. Laughing it off

Title: In Love But Not At Peace, Chapter 3  
Author: Mucada  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: You know, being a shipper of 2 years, I sometimes _think_ I own them, but alas, they belong to Jo, who's totally better than me at writing and being rich. ;) Again, title belongs to Dar, and the city of London belongs to itself.  
Summary: A series of short vignettes, featuring the interworkings of Remus/Tonks.  
Chapter 3: Creating want by holding back, at least, that's what she tells herself. Remus/Tonks.

**A/N: **For all of you who have stuck through this far, you probably ask yourself while reading, "Where the fuck is her plot? Does she know there's isn't one?" Well, yes I do. This isn't supposed to have one. I know how to make plots, but I decided to runa little wild with this.

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Three weeks pass, after their trip to Brick Lane. They don't speak much during that time, only a friendly hello at a meeting, or a call late at night, when she feels tired but unable to sleep, and she knows he is around to be awake for her. For her. For himself, she knows, or for the demons inside of him, reminding him just how many people he has lost in his life. She thinks, as she walks the familiar route to his flat, that they never talked about it. About Sirius. He had told her personally, while she stayed at St. Mungo's, that he was dead. That was at the beginning of the summer. Months went by, and she hadn't cried yet, not even while she was alone. She sometimes tells herself that that makes her a bad person, but yet, she is still unable to shed any tears.

It's true, she's never seen him cry over his death. But, he did lose Sirius years ago, and she knows that they never had the time or the ability to find the same friendship they once had. She wonders if he thinks about that. He probably pushes it out of his mind, numbing the pain instead of healing the wound.

Earls Court Road is the same with each journey she makes on it. The cracks in the pavement are the same, as are the store fronts. Sometimes, even the people are the same, some familiar enough for her to smile at, walking their small dogs around the block. Others are just familiar faces, like the man with a blue afro handing out pamphlets at the entrance to the underground. He's the perfect example of her and Kingsley's lovechild, if they had one. For the first time, she actually accepts one of the papers he hands out, reading it as she walks. An advertisement for a new organic pizza restaurant on Gloucester. She looks back at the man quickly, and he waves. She smiles back. Tomorrow at work, she's going to suggest to Kingsley that, just for kicks, he should grow out his hair. She doesn't need to wait until then to know how that conversation would play out.

She is unexpected, like always. Hell, maybe now since her arrival is so frequent she is expected. When he opens the door, there is no shock on his face. He invited her in with his warm smile, the smile she's loved ever since she first saw it. It's the type of look that, at a glance, is merely friendly, but she knows it holds more. He grins like a man who knows himself, and knows the person he is speaking to. Molly once commented on how it's the type of smile that has old women like herself blushing and laughing nervously. At that, she just laughed it off.

"Good to see you," he says hoarsely, beckoning her into his small flat. She wonders at times what his rooms would smell like it he didn't smoke so much. She tries, when she is able, to get close enough to him to tell, but she still doesn't know.

Her attempts at most things are failures. Like, right now, she is unable to make it through the door without loosing her balance and stumbling. That's typical, since she can't make it more than four steps without doing something clumsy. Like most of her problems, she laughs it off. She cracks jokes in the office to remind people they're still living, even in times of war. She makes fun of herself whenever she knocks something over.

She never laughs about him though, even when she thinks too much of him. He is her biggest failure, how she is unable to get him to see her, to see her intentions. Maybe she goes about it all wrong. Maybe it _is_ the age difference that makes it so hard. The stubbornness in her slaps her face slightly, to knock the sense in, or to just knock her back on track.

Or maybe he knows, creating want by holding back, his way of telling her something. Maybe he isn't like all the daft men out there. She really isn't _that _bad.

"Got anything to eat here?" she asks, taking off her jacket and making herself at home. She loves doing that. He shrugs, motioning to the kitchen and sitting down on the worn couch. She opens the door of the refrigerator, finding nothing but takeout and different vegetables, and an unmarked bottle of clear liquid that she doubts is water.

"This vodka?" He turns around as she closes the door, placing the bottle on the counter and looking for glasses in his cabinet. She can hear the smile in his voice when he answers yes. Walking steadily so not to trip, she hands him a glass, and sitting down near him with one leg under her, she holds up her glass and he does the same.

"To him," she says, hoping that her words don't cause him to shut down completely.

"To him," he responds, toasting his glass against hers and holding eye contact as they drink. Still all there. He smiles.

They do little that evening, something that she enjoys, much more than she did when they were both at Grimmauld Place. She hates to admit that at times, but it's true. They leave his flat when the sun begins to set, walking all the way to Redcliffe Gardens, even though there isn't much to see. Like most nights, when she finds herself with him, she lets her mind wander in a way she knows isn't because of the alcohol. She'll do the little things she pretends aren't down consciously, like bumping her arm against his, grabbing his hand when she stumbles on the concrete. She'll laugh too loud for the residential area, and just expect people to look out their open windows at her. She will always feel like everything about her is unwanted, too loud, or clumsy. That's what makes her different from the quiet man walking beside her, his soft shoes making no noise when he walks in stride with her loud heels.

That's the reason she wants to be with him, this night, and all the other nights, and in ways she doesn't think he knows, or wants to know –wants himself to know- so she tells herself.

Like the people with their soft music and warm lights, pulling their curtains over open windows, he lures her in.

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Please tell me what you think:)


	4. Realizing

Title: In Love But Not At Peace  
Chapter 4: Realizing  
Author: Mucada  
Rating: PG-13, for language. Nothing that hasn't been said  
Disclaimer: Jo's. Title from Dar Williams' song.  
Summary: "In front of her is Remus Lupin. He always hated himself for some things."

888

The walls are brick, he realizes, and he wonders what city he's in. London. Yes, London. That's where he lives, but he isn't in his flat, nor is he in his bed. Wow, he thinks, perhaps out loud, he doesn't appear to be wearing clothing. He was sure he put on clothing yesterday when he woke up and went about his day, but one can never be too sure about those things.

There's a buzzing outside of the room, a room he can't recognize. The walls are brick, and the ceiling is colorless, with some grey border made of a large, homemade rubber stamp. He wonders why someone would go through the trouble of standing on a ladder and in such and awkward position stamp a design around the ceiling. He sits up in the bed, the sheets an ugly flower print, the kind someone doesn't care is ugly, and scans the floor for his clothing. The carpet is more threadbare than his own, a dark blue with green, red and black designs that clash horribly with the sheets, but actually look fine against the brick.

He had no idea his mind could notice such things while he was hung over. He should drink more often, then.

That shouldn't be much of a problem.

Sitting up seems to make him feel more alert, and less hung over, and he realizes that he isn't completely naked, just missing his shirt. At least he hasn't done anything he might regret. He seems to have lost his shirt, and his sandals, but the room is warm anyway, so such items don't seem necessary. There's a fan on the dresser, as well as one in the corner, pushing the hot air around the room and in and out of the open window. Whose room is he in? Who does he know that hangs empty picture frames on the brick and has a bunch of bamboo sticks in the corner tied together with twine?

Oh dear God.

There's a wand resting on the nightstand, along with books on muggle criminology and basket weaving. He sees Shakespeare as well. There's a mirror on the door that he can see himself in, a shirtless man hunched over on a sagging bed, mouth slightly open. He looks down at his hands as if embarrassed, and looks in the mirror again. Something's missing, his necklace, and he shakes as he moves the sheets around to find it.

There's a creak, telling him something he can't understand, so he translates it to "You are a dead man, Lupin." The buzzing he hears becomes louder, and he realizes that it's music.

"Good morning, stranger," a voice says, a very feminine voice that he knows quite well. He looks up so fast that his neck hurts. He winces. One look matches the voice to a face, and suddenly the bamboo and empty picture frame make sense.

"Good morning, Tonks," he replied, voice actually cracking.

"I made coffee, but it isn't good, so you don't have to be polite."

"Thanks," is all he can say, and he straightens up when she approaches. Standing next to her, so close, makes him feel uncomfortable, although it shouldn't. Today is a day like any other, his sobering mind tells him. He just woke up in her bed. Nothing strange. They sleep together all the time, and share food and drinks. He wakes up some mornings, in his own bed, and finds her there, having let herself in at night without waking him. Nothing odd, so this shouldn't be any different.

But this time he's in her room, and it seems so much more personal than his own, and when she stands so close all he noticed is that her soap is different because it's her own, and she is very short. He wonders if it's her natural height.

They stand silent for a moment, and he continues to search her sheets for his necklace. She asks him what he's looking for, and she's holding his shirt for him, usual smile on her face. This whole room where they are standing seems too big for them, and too big for her, with the tall furniture and huge fan. The objects are so old, too old for her, and he suddenly remembers what it's like to be young and poor, when you thought you wouldn't be, and that life would be an easy ride, like you imagined it during school. But Tonks isn't poor; she has a job at the Ministry, and her parents are still alive, and well off. This room seems to cave in on itself, and the music coming from the open door makes the entire situation seem absurd. It sounds pissy and depressing, like the singer wants you to know it, quite clearly.

He stands in front of her, more than 10 years her senior, and she's looking up at him, holding his shirt. She's breathing and living like him, but those 10 years makes him feel uncomfortable, like he wants to believe he's better than her.

If she would just turn off that fucking music.

"Your music is terrible," he says, taking his shirt and putting it on. The sleeves were still rolled up. She glares at him for a moment, and leaves the room. He follows, putting on his necklace as he walks.

"You're just not used to it," is all she says, glancing back at him before she starts to spill coffee instead of pouring it. Her face is dead serious, like she's expecting him to understand, he who plays old folk songs on his acoustic guitar and doesn't like this new stuff. He is so typically old, and he feels like laughing.

He looks around this new room, narrow wood paneling on the kitchen floor which is rough against his feet and brick walls crumpling and aged. She could do better than this. He did better than this.

"The music won't save you," he says, taking the coffee mug she hands him. It's still damp from when she spilled it.

"What." It wasn't a question, but a sarcastic comment that went along with her face, the face of someone younger. He didn't belong here.

"Really," he murmurs, taking a sip of the coffee (worse than he imagined, but he said nothing) and placing it down, "I tried it years ago. See where it left me." As a fuck up, he thinks, a broken man who smokes too much and sleeps in a young woman's bed, unable to remember how he got there. That will probably remain a mystery too, because he would never embarrass himself by asking that. She could wander her way unknowingly into his, but it doesn't work the other way around.

"You're fucking nuts," she says, but the statement doesn't carry because there is no malice in her voice, just like his last shot at trying to tell her she won't be young forever, because he was unable to say it with force. He tells himself he doesn't care that much, why should he. Her weak retort tells him she cares too much.

It tells him why he feels uncomfortable for the first time in her flat, even though she's sleeping over there all the time. That is all they do: sleep. They don't have sex, there are no emotions. There is mostly silence, liquor and smoking.

And there's Tonks, clumsy in front of him, even though she just stands there, with her shitty music blasting in the background, banging around her crumbling apartment that costs less than it should because she could do better.

In front of her is Remus Lupin. He always hated himself for some things. He feels superior even though he shouldn't. He was once young and pathetic, thinking art could save him from things like war and poverty. Really, it just made it worse, and there was never any glory or dignity that she thinks she will find.

God, he really fucking thinks too much when he's hung over.

"Really, Remus," she says, walking past him and shoving him gently, but enough to knock him against the counter. He's afraid it might fall apart under his weight.

He laughs lightly, and she huffs once, glancing back at him. "You're so weak," she says, smirking.

So he was.

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Please tell me what you think. :) And thank you to all you have been following this.


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